Here I am, wrinkled and grey, sitting in my chair.
On my left, relentless bickering,
On my right, skeletal mannequins with silver hair.
Hand knitted centurions with zimmers march on down the hall,
Their excited exclamations mean only this,
Doris Wagstaff has had another fall.
At the entrance of the dining room, it's handbags at ten paces,
With walking sticks clashing, false teeth rattling,
Here begin the tea time races.
As I sit here, in my chair, I could move if I had the notion,
But my nose is assulted with the sickening scent,
Of lavender and camomile lotion.
The nurses on duty pop in and out, to check we are all doing
As I am instructed to get up, it's time for tea,
I curse at my stiffening spine.
With the clashing of cups in saucers, by shaking arthritic hands,
I shuffle to my seat, on slippered feet,
to the wireless blaring out a brass band.
With concentration, I reach for my cup, taking care not to spill a
In walk the rest of the walking dead,
In time to the music, their knees crackle and pop.
Here I am, wrinkled and grey, sitting in my chair,
Like a blue-rinsed collective, uniform of knitwear,
Into space we all do sit and stare.
By Lindsey Deere